‘An Oklahoma Nightmare’ and Other Poetry by Bruce Dale Wise The Society June 19, 2013 Poetry An Oklahoma Nightmare Leashed from the continent, it flew— on 20 May 2013— and caught the currents of the airy blue— colliding winds that swirled above—whirling. Sweet Jesus, the tornado’s winds touched down west of Newcastle, Oklahoma, at 2:45 pm, and stayed aground for seventeen long miles fifty minutes! On the Enhanced Fujita scale it reached five— and at one point was wider than a mile— a roaring, horrid, violent bee-hive alive with vile energy gone wild. And then, at Moore, at the Orr Fam’ly Farm six dozen horses, plus some more, were killed; and that was just the start of deadly harm— two hundred miles per hour onward spilled its wretched spin to homes and houses fenced, to schools, establishments and businesses. At least a dozen cars were stacked against Moore Medical Center’s front entrance. It flattened buildings in its twisted path, then crossed the Interstate where cars were tossed and littered all about; its deadly math— hundreds were injured, twenty-four were lost. Above 12,000 houses were destroyed, or damaged; over 30,000 people hit, a giant black wall of destructive void of nature in a universal fit. No thing within its way withstood its might. It plowed down all with oceanic maw; the energy contained within its bite perhaps two hundred times Hiroshima. On Evan Mantyk I have enormous admiration for the man, because of what he’s trying to accomplish now, creating a poetic portal. It’s his plan to be conduit for American verse. How could anyone do such a thing? It is too large. And yet he’s trying it—with family in tow. “Row, Mantyk, row.” Row on in this fantastic barge. Th’ ideals of youth are inspiring, if futile, breathtaking, if hopeless. Still, they are what will forge the fresh, th’ invigorating, new, the beautiful, the good, and true. The little engine who dares, can [like Don Quixote tilting at whirring windmills], by trying the impossible, infuse the real. Alecsei Budrew Heartsick, I pondered this dark mystery of life. I wondered, yes, poor people, o, what do we want? The sky is clear, and under it ‘s a place, a slice for each of us. But endlessly we fight and flaunt our needless battles. Why? Rus interrupted me, my reverie. He struck my shoulder, hard and gaunt. What is this place’s name? He answered, “Valerik,” translated in your language—”river of the dead.” Hernán Cortés Hernán Cortés, the conqueror of Mexico and founder of the colony New Spain, was born in Medellín, Estremadura, long ago, like 1485. He left law and his home in order to become a colonist abroad. He served Diego Velásquez in uniform to conquer Cuba. Later on, he was ordered to lead an expedition to the Yucatán, investigating rumoured, rich discoveries. He gained Tobasco, founded Veracruz, and planned, and executed daringly, though not alone, the conquest of the Aztecs and Tenochtitlán. Bruce Dale Wise is a poet living in Washington State. Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.